The Portraitist
by LetsTryThisEh
Summary: Harry Potter wants to memorialize his godson's parents and commision a magical portrait of them. When he is introduced to a mysterious artist, his past, present, and future come crashing together. [A try at the background of magical paintings]
1. Prologue

Crimson. Carmine. Cornell.

That wasn't it.

Madder. Maroon.

Closer.

Exhaustion had set in. The landscape was covered in red. Not the Gryffindor red that she associated with happiness and winning and the boys that she had grown up with. Red that was blood and carnage and destruction. Those same boys, men now, had left her with her thoughts and returned to begin the healing process.

The battle had torn at her, physically and emotionally. Seeing her best friend seemingly dead, what would that do to her delicate psyche, already pushed to the edge. She can't bring herself to imagine a future without him.

No, find something beautiful. She had to push those thoughts aside. Something calming. The deep blue of the night sky. The green of the cool grass beneath her legs. The soft browns of the forest, trees splintered from the impact of spells cast and missing their targets, stumps and shards all that remained.

No. Not that. She can't.

Her part is done, she realizes. These maddening years have been enough. She needs to move forward, away from the chaos. What does that mean, though? Where does that leave her? Where does it take her? And who does it take her away from?

The fiery red hair of the boy she should want, that all signs pointed towards. The brilliant green eyes of the boy she shouldn't want, and yet...

Forward, always forward. It's what's best for everyone, she convinces herself. Get out of her head. Center and clarify. Find home again.

But what if home is here? What if home is rebuilding, following the path that has been lain since she got her letter and boarded that train, the route that led her to this patch of grass outside a magnificent castle, bruised and bloody, removed from her family, and on the verge of breaking.

This grass. Not unlike Wyeth's _Christina's World_. A favorite from her youth. She found similarities between herself and the faceless Christina. Two young women looking towards a home, uncertain where the future lies.

She recalls seeing the painting at the Tate Modern in her youth, on loan and the center of an exhibition. What she wouldn't give to see and experience art again. Visiting museums with her parents was her favorite activity when she was younger. Art captured her mind and entranced her soul. When she took the rare break from her studies, the paintings that hung throughout the halls of Hogwarts enchanted her and seemed like her own personal gallery. She marveled at the works. The paintings were astonishing even without the magical elements that lie within them. At her loneliest times, she could count some of those figures in the paintings as her only friends.

She can't help but wonder how many were destroyed during the battle.

Her mind clears, mirroring the sky above her. Suddenly, all is clear. She stands, brushing the residual grass and dirt from her pants. She turns, for one last look at the gray walls of her home for the past seven years. She knows what she is leaving but it's for the best. She's convinced.

Forward.

Always.

With one last glance, she turns into the ink black night and, like that, Hermione is gone.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Mornings had become a burden to Harry Potter.

In his youth, he was charged with making breakfast for the Dursleys and was always an early riser. Hogwarts helped to cure him of that, as he enjoyed lazy mornings before being roused out of bed by Ron to head to breakfast. That was a momentary reprieve, though. These days he found himself awakening early again, if able to sleep at all.

His thoughts consumed him at times. This morning, he had awoken before the sun. A fitless night of sleep left him weary but coffee would remedy that. Leaving his bedroom in Grimmauld Place, he made his way to the kitchen and set about brewing his favorite drink.

While the coffee brewed, he curled himself into a kitchen chair and allowed himself a moment of peace. He always loved the kitchen as an idea but now that he had made this one his own, he truly relished it. After the war, he came back to Grimmauld and sank a lot of sweat, time, and to be quite honest, galleons into making it habitable. Gone was all of the curling wallpaper and infested curtains and lightless rooms. Windows were added, amenities were updated. It became a place he was truly proud to call home. And in that home was the kitchen. Not just any kitchen, his kitchen. A large stove and counter space dominated the room to one side. The other featured a wall-length window that looked out onto the garden. A table marked the center and it was where everyone gathered when visitors came over. And so he found himself, looking out on the flowers and greenery in his garden, thinking about the past.

After his victory over Voldemort, the world was his. Everyone wanted a piece of him and he had to truly work to sate everyone. Throughout his years at Hogwarts he had always had his two best friends to help him wade through the incessant noise but after the war, well, things changed.

Hermione left. Not disappeared, no. But she was gone. After the final battle, Harry had left his companions to go back to the castle and help. He thought that the seemingly newly found couple needed a moment to themselves. Ron followed behind shortly thereafter, leaving Hermione alone on the castle grounds. She had said she needed to collect her thoughts. So the pair had gone to work, helping those in need, clearing rubble, whatever needed to be done. It wasn't until hours later that they realized that Hermione had left.

A letter was received weeks later. Hermione was firm in that she wasn't abandoning them or the magical world. Just that she needed time and space and that their paths would cross again when the time was right. With that single piece of parchment, Hermione was gone from their lives. It had been almost six years since Harry had last heard from her.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He realized his coffee was ready and pulled himself away from his seat to prepare his drink. He removes the cream from his cooler, adding a splash to his cup along with a sugar cube. The smell helps to awaken his senses and his head clears. A full day is ahead of him, so it's time to keep going. Taking his cup with him, he heads back towards his bedroom to prepare for the day.

He chooses simple robes. Once, he had to wear a specific set, the robes of an auror. His career path after the war was what had been expected of him. He enrolled in the auror program and breezed through the training. Ron had joined him, desperate for direction. His friend quickly realized, though, that his heart wasn't in it. He bowed out before the end of the training regimen and joined George in running the joke shop.

It wasn't until a few years later that Harry realized Ron had chosen wisely.

Harry checks himself in the mirror and sighs.

"Good enough," he mutters under his breath. He checks that he has his essentials and turns on the spot, apparating to his next great adventure.

He arrives to bright cerulean skies. Where had he ever picked up that word? Must have been Hermione and her secret obsession with colors. He looks up at the castle that dominates the skyline ahead of him. Back once more, he starts the walk to Hogwarts' entrance, a sense of home settling over him.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"And these will be your living quarters."

Harry followed behind Minerva McGonagall in her tour of Hogwarts. Of course he remembered the layout from his days as a student but approaching it from the lens of a teacher was a whole other matter. The living quarters for professors, tucked away in a broad turret, were new to him.

Thinking back, Harry wondered where all of the professors had stayed. The headmaster had informed him that professors had their choice, either live on the grounds in the living quarters or floo in each morning. Owing to his immense dislike of the floo network to this day, Harry chose the former.

"How had I never noticed these rooms before, professor," Harry asked.

"Once more, I will remind you that you may in fact call me Minerva. And it's a simple matter of a very low-grade notice-me-not ward on the area to keep students and prying eyes from noticing. The new defense against the dark arts professor should know these things, Harry," McGonagall responded.

Harry smiled, finding it difficult to separate himself from his established and preconceived notions of the Scottish teacher. He turned away and looked around the space. The door to the living quarters opened to a sitting room with a window overlooking the grounds. It had four doors from there: one lead to a master bedroom, one to a bathroom, one to a study, and one to a kitchen. Following his true love, he made his way to the kitchen first.

"Rather sparse, huh," he remarked.

"The kitchen elves take offense to others cooking in the castle. That said, we recognize that not all teachers want to spend every meal in the great hall. This allows for a modicum of privacy at the least."

Already going through spells to enlarge counter tops in his head, Harry turned from the kitchen to continue his exploration. The bathroom was as to be expected as was the master bedroom. The study was lined with bookshelves and a desk that sat at a window.

"I don't have much use for the study," Harry noted. "Would it be alright to consider using it for something else?"

"What did you have in mind," McGonagall asked.

Harry hummed to himself. Thinking to the last few years at Grimmauld, he thought fondly of entertaining his friends. Though it may be a bit more difficult to entertain at Hogwarts, there was always the matter of his most important guest.

"Err, Professor. Would it be alright to turn it into a guest room?"

His question was met with an arched brow.

"And just whom would you be having stay over, Harry?"

""Oh, it wouldn't be for some wild party," Harry backtracked. "I was thinking of my godson, Teddy."

McGonagall relinquished a smile. "Of course, Harry. Teddy is always welcome in these halls. You may have to make a few adjustments to the room and, what do muggles call it? Child-proof it?"

"Oh no, Professor. Teddy's nearly six now. There isn't much that will stop him from getting into mischief." Harry smiled at memories of finding his godson in precarious situations throughout Grimmauld Place. He had a bit of Marauder in him, to say the least.

"Takes after his parents, I see," McGonagall noted. "And his godfather."

"Why, I was nothing but a paragon of virtue in my time here. I can't even think of one moment that I stepped out of line." A smirk played at Harry's lips.

"Yes, yes. How forgetful of me. Now, Harry, I must be off. There are still schedules and plans to be made. And someone has to keep Hagrid in line. Can you find your way out?"

"Of course, Professor. And again, thank you for this opportunity. I won't let you down," Harry called to the retreating back of the headmaster.

"See that you don't, Harry," McGonagall called over her shoulder. "And for the last time, it's Minerva!"

Chuckling, Harry returned his attention back to the room. It was spartan but he could certainly add a few touches to the scene. His eye for interior design certainly wasn't on par with whomever was decorating Buckingham Castle, but he did just fine, thank you very much. Grimmauld turned out well and that was with minimal help from his then-girlfriend, Ginny. She didn't have Molly's touch for homemaking but she was helpful.

Ginny had exited his life much as she came into it: quietly. The shy girl who had longed over the boy-who-lived had turned into a partner that Harry enjoyed. Athletic, vibrant, and curious, she fulfilled what Ron noted as "Harry's Manic Pixie Quidditch Dreamgirl" type. But a career focused on Quidditch laid waste to any plans they might have had at a future. Ginny found herself with an offer to play internationally and Harry found himself not objecting to her leaving. They parted ways amicably two years ago and still enjoyed each other's company at every Weasley event, even so far as sharing a bed when the need was there.

Thinking of beds, Harry wandered back to the study-cum-guest room. It was bright, with ample light provided by the window. The desk could stay, he thought to himself, and he'd still have room for a double bed.

Noting to himself to ask about acquiring a bed in the castle, he frowned at the bare walls. The living room had a mirror and simple painting of the Great Lake at Hogwarts hung to add some decoration. Harry had taken to hanging pictures of his parents and his friends about Grimmauld. There was something about the motion of the magical images that kept him company. They functioned as surrogates of the loved ones in his life for when they weren't there.

A photo of Remus and Tonks would be nice. A bit underwhelming, but nice. Harry scratched at the stubble on his chin, thinking about what was best for Teddy. Teddy was raised in a loving home with Andromeda Tonks, never wanting for anything. Harry made sure of that. But he wanted this to be special, something the boy could cherish. This could be his second home. He would need to think on that.

Harry finished his survey of his new living space and closed the door behind him. He stepped out into the hall. Not being terribly familiar with the hall the living space was in, he decided to wander and take in the area. He went down the steps of the turret and came to a landing with what appeared to be a staff lounge. The space was dotted with leather chairs, study tables, and bookshelves. A large fireplace dominated the center of the room and, above it, hung a magical portrait he had never seen. He approached it and read the small plaque that was nailed to the bottom of the frame:

_Eustice the Galant_

_Protector of Muggles_

_1805-1911_

Harry peered up at the portrait and found a sleeping man, a neat mustache on his lip, and a sleeping cat in his lap. He made a mental note to talk to and find out more about the subject of the painting and turned to leave. He made his way to the entrance of the castle and set his path towards Hogsmeade. A nice walk would do him some good before returning to pack at Grimmauld.

It wasn't long into his walk when a thought sprang to mind. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He arrived at the Hog's Head Inn and took a seat at the bar. The inn was his drinking spot of choice in Hogsmeade as he could often sit unbothered. He ordered a fire whiskey and water from Aberforth. Looking up at the inn-keeper as he was served his drink, Harry asked a question.

"Abe, do you know who I could talk to about having a magical portrait made?"


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

What color is sweat? Is it silver? Translucent tinted with blue like a glass pane? It's like rain, she supposed.

Hermione Granger was running and this was the thought going through her mind. Color being what it was, it was often a singular thought in her life. She had taken up jogging in an attempt to clear her mind but she often found herself contemplating hues throughout the nature that she saw on the park path she ran along the banks of the Thames. They inspired her work and motivated her towards the beauty she sought.

Her hair, a curly mess that she had given up on taming long ago, bounced behind her as she pounded down the riverside path. She jogged on, her normal path coming to an end ahead of her. She chose to run through the Royal Botanical Gardens as the colors of the world were vibrant there. Coupled with the sounds from the river, she was able to lose herself easily each time out. She slowed her pace, having covered the kilometers she was hopeful to get in before the start of her day.

Her apartment was a good distance from the trail and she had to be careful. It's not that she felt unsafe, but rather that she lived amongst muggles and had to be smart about her outward displays of magic. Casting a subtle Homenum Revelio and finding herself alone, she apparated on the spot.

With a quiet pop, she arrived in her apartment. The sunlight was streaming in through the windows of her third floor walkup, warming every inch of the studio space. Hermione liked to think that she didn't live like some fanciful Bohemian artist but looking around, she couldn't but help to think on the contrary. Paints, ingredients, canvases, smocks, drop clothes, study samples, and art books cluttered the landscape. Her clothes were strewn about with dishes and cups cluttering spaces around the room.

Where once she prided herself on her neat and meticulous nature, now she finds order in chaos. She prefers the clutter and spontaneity that her life has afforded her. Truth be told, eighteen year old Hermione would have been aghast at the state of her life. In that same truth, though, much had changed since she left Hogwarts the night of the battle. For God's sake, she was a runner now! Who would ever imagine that? Certainly not either of the boys she had counted as her best friends.

Men, now, she reminds herself. She tried to not be remorseful towards her actions taken that night. In the end, things had worked out well for her. Her new lifestyle was satisfying, if not lonely at times. While Harry and Ron had been at her side through thick and mostly through thin, they were a memory now. Not the present and certainly not the future. She had written them when she left, that she hoped that their paths might cross and, while that remained true, she was frightened of that day. Worried with how they would look at her, the friend who had abandoned them. Who had been gone while they moved on with their lives, achieving and growing. She tried as best she could to follow their exploits in the Daily Prophet, but she knew to take all of that with a grain of salt. The validity of the paper's claim that Harry had stepped down from his post as an auror was particularly surprising. Maybe even intriguing...

Shaking her head, she pulled away from her thoughts and considered her day. She couldn't muddy her mind with that nonsense, especially with much to do and so little time left to do it. She disrobed from her sweaty exercise outfit, showered, and settled on a simple tank top and shorts for her day. She made her way to her kitchenette, petting Crookshanks along her way. Her only companion these days, as her bed was most often empty and friends were few and far between.

But then, her friends these days were of a different nature.

Settling on a quick breakfast of granola, she turned to the work at hand. On her easel was a work in progress, a canvas with a figure, the space around him to be filled and finalized. She takes it all in and considers her next stroke. Raising her spoon to her mouth with one last bite, she hums, a familiar tune coming out.

"Really, Hermione," she hears. "This song again?"

"Quiet, Pavel," Hermione scolds her subject. "I thought you, of all people, would like Chopin."

"To play, yes", her subject replied. "But seeing that I am but a painting now, a memory in the company of an artist, it only makes me wistful."

Hermione placed her bowl and spoon down, picking up her magical brush. She prepared her paint, choosing a dark red to work with today. Sangria, if she recalls the hue correctly.

"Well, then. Let's see how far we get today, Pavel."


	5. Chapter 4

Pavel Oliwa was a fair wizard. Growing up in rural Poland, his parents had instilled in him a strong sense of right and wrong. His father came from a longstanding pureblood family while his mother was a first generation witch. They knew each side and knew that, while things weren't always black and white, a strong moral compass would help their son in the tumultuous times they sensed around themselves. And so he grew, following that compass and ascending through the halls of the Durmstrang Institute for Magical Learning.

It was during this schooling that Pavel began to notice things. The rising tide of vitriolic rhetoric, disappearances of muggles and magicals alike. There was something in the air and Pavel feared it. Then when approached by other students to join this rising movement, one being given a name and brought to the forefront by a wizard named Gellert Grindelwald, he knew which path he should take. Not the path of least resistance, no, quite the opposite in fact.

Pavel joined their ranks. Learning what he could in the movement, devoting himself to their teachings, and rising in their ranks. Soon enough, he would be counted one of a select few ascending towards Grindelwald's inner circle. He found himself on the brink of all out war, the rise of the movement swelling, and actions against Muggles and muggleborns alike occurring daily. Little did his fellow supporters know, however, that Pavel was doing everything in his power to derail all of their machinations.

Pavel had that sense of right and wrong. He saw the wrong that was happening around him early on and made a deal with himself to stop it at any cost, his own life be damned. And so he went along with the planning of his schoolmates, playing his part, and rising to prominence. All the while divulging secrets to resistance fighters and assisting those working towards true equality and justice.

It was during this rise that Pavel found himself in love. When able, he secreted away from his cohorts to aid in the movement of muggles and muggle-born witches and wizards. And so it was that one foggy, damp Warsaw evening, he found himself transporting a young woman named Aviva Friedman across Polish borders. Smitten at first sight, he helped to apparate the young, first-generation witch away from Poland to the relative safety of English shores. Apparation point to apparation point, the pair struck up an easy conversation and upon her safe delivery, they promised to write each other as frequently as possible.

Those letters sustained Pavel throughout the war and his subterfuge efforts. When word came of Grindlewald's defeat at the hands of Albus Dumbledore, Pavel went to England at once for Aviva. They married a year later and raised a large family in a home along the Baltic Sea. He worked as a potion master for years continuing to help his community at large.

Upon his death in 2003, his family wanted to honor him for all of the good he did for the world. They wanted to commission a magical portrait of their beloved husband, father, grandfather, community patron. And so, Hermione found herself working with the Oliwa family, diving through their memories, dissecting Pavel's journals and letters with Aviva, utilizing magical photographs for reference, and learning all she could about her subject.

"Have I told you about the night I met my wife?"

Hermione laughed. "Of course, Pavel. We have been together for the last six or so months. But I'd love to hear the story again."

Off Pavel went, reminiscing on his dearest love, Aviva. Hermione grinned to herself and went on with the background of the portrait. She dappled her brush into her paint and began bringing the background to life. Pavel always loved the changing of the colors of leaves and so Hermione was placing him in the forest glen near the home that he and Aviva had made along the coast. Setting it in fall allowed her the chance to add dazzling colors of leaves, allowing a perpetual cascade of leaves slowly falling in the background.

Pavel, loving all things Polish, wanted his painting in the style of Jacek Malczewski. Unfamiliar with the artist, Hermione found herself diving into research about the 1900s artist. His portrait style was colorful and playful and a fun technique to try her hand at. Most portrait subjects didn't require such art mimicry, but Hermione enjoyed when she was allowed to stray from her usual classical path. She had eschewed paths long ago.

After fleeing Hogwarts that night, Hermione found herself at a crossroads. Parentless, she focused her energy towards finding her mother and father and establishing that part of her life again. She cashed in all of her savings and bought a plane ticket to Australia. Utilizing the Sydney public library system and their immensely helpful librarians, she was able to locate her parents without too much trouble. The trouble came when she finally plucked up the courage to visit and reverse her memory charms.

Her parents had created a new life as Wendell and Monica Wilkins, establishing a dentistry practice and building a new, Hermione-less existence in the suburbs of Sydney. So when a young woman came to their practice as a new patient, late one evening, they thought nothing of the normal occurrence. Able to get them alone, Hermione worked her wand and reversed the spell.

Her parents were less than pleased with Hermione's decision to tamper with their minds, especially in the fact that they weren't given a choice in the matter. They were, however, happy to see their child and willing to move on, realizing their daughter was looking for a fresh start. As a family, they decided to stay in Australia. Hermione was happy to have space from the world she left behind in England and her parents had developed a thriving practice and a healthy love of the beach. Hermione sat for her Australian Tertiary Admission Rank, not unlike the A-levels she would have sat in England. Breezing through them, she enrolled at the most prestigious art school in Australia, the Royal Australian Art Academy. Following her love of color and art, she studied painting and excelled.

In her life, Hermione had studied under two masters: one, a muggle at the academy and the other, a master magical painter. The former had taught her style, technique, art history, perspective, and allowed her to develop a vision. The latter was an airbag, annoyance, and complete genius. Her university experience was freeing. Without the threat of death over her shoulder, Hermione was able to find herself. She made friends, found a love for music, even found herself romantically involved with a few partners. Her professors encouraged her towards her best and, one in particular, nurtured her talent. Professor Nancy Harold was exactly what Hermione had needed. A stern hand at times, but a caring, sweet person that had an eye for talent. Professor Harold was the final factor in Hermione deciding to return to the shores of England. She had shown Hermione that her talent could be furthered by the artists and masters in a city like London.

So Hermione founderself back in England, in a tiny flat in a dodgy end of London. Knowing that she wanted to come back to the magical world and develop her hand at the magical art she so admired, she turned to the only place she knew that could help. On a warm, sunny summer day, Hermione found herself striding up the steps to Hogwarts, surprised by the smiling face of Minerva McGonagall at the top of the stairs. She was ushered into the headmaster's office where she proceeded to gush out everything that had been bottled up.

"No need to dwell," Minerva said, taking a seat next to Hermione. "Choices are made. Nothing to undo them now. All anyone can do is learn and grow and you are in the right castle for that."

Hermione sniffled, wiping a tear away. "It's easy to say that, professor, but what will everyone think when they find out that I'm back?"

"Worry about that later," her astute professor advised. "If all you've said is accurate, it's obvious that you seek to continue your fresh start. Keep your head up and keep moving forward."

"I am, but I'm not sure where to turn next. I've been fascinated by magical portraits. It's my dream to work on them, but I've no idea where to start," Hermione heaved.

"Come with me Ms. Granger," McGonagall said, standing and striding from the room.

Hermione followed dutifully and found herself behind McGonagall in a part of the castle she had never seen before.

"Eustice. Eustice! Wake up, please!"

McGonagall was in front of a portrait of a man, quietly asleep, with a cat curled in his lap and a fire roaring in the background. The scene looked delightfully comfortable and Hermione didn't blame the man for sleeping one bit.

"This is the most recent painting in our collection here at Hogwarts", McGonagall explained. "It was gifted to us by the man's family some 20 years ago. Most portraits stay with their families, but they felt that with all the good Eustice had done for this school, his place was in these halls."

The man's soft snores sputtered. Blinking his eyes, he acclimated to the light and looked around.

"Headmaster," Eustice yawned. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Eustice, this is Miss Hermione Granger. She is an aspiring magical artist and I was hoping that you would be kind enough to divulge the name of the artist that created you."

"Oh, that old windbag? Are you sure you want to work with him?" Eustice looked confounded.

"I'm open to anything. This is my heart's desire, what I've worked so hard for," Hermione pleaded.

"Fine, fine, fine. Applewhite is his name. Thaddeus Applewhite. If I recall correctly, you can find him in Wimbourne every Saturday night at the Grey Mare." Eustice grimaced. "And now, if you don't mind, I would like to get back to my nap."

"That man naps more than any portrait in this entire castle," McGonagall muttered under her breath. "Go. Find Applewhite. Thrive and find yourself. Our paths will cross again, soon enough, I should think." With that last bit of advice, McGonagall sent Hermione on her way into the world.

Thaddeus Applewhite had been England's premier magical painter for Gods know how long. Hermione was never able to ascertain his true age. But throughout all of his years, he had painted masterpieces for the magical world, a number of which hung in the halls of Hogwarts. Thaddeus painted everyone from the Prime Ministers of Magic to the captains of Quidditch teams to icons of magical history. He never leant his brush to the common witch or wizard and the magical population of England turned to lesser artists and foreign shores for portraits and art. And so when she found him that cold, rainy night in Wimbourne, Hermione had no idea what she was in for.

Asking the bartender for information, Hermione was led to a man sitting at the end of the bar, buried under a fine, thick coat, drinking alone and grimacing. She approached him tentatively.

"Erm, excuse me. Mr. Applewhite?" Hermione asked.

"What?" A gruff response didn't necessarily surprise her based on outward appearances.

"Well, my name is Hermione and I've been given your name as someone to possibly apprentice under."

Applewhite stared down at his drink and with one swift motion, downed the ebony liquid and turned to Hermione. Steel grey eyes appraised her and Hermione had never felt scrutinized like that before.

"I've no time for dreamers. I need a worker, someone quick with brush and apprising with eye. I can tell you have a hunger, but are you diligent? Can you muster the strength and courage to delve into someone's soul?" Applewhite was nearly shouting.

"I think you'll find that all of those things are qualities that I have," Hermione cooly responded.

"Hmph. We'll see. Come with me, girl."

And with that, Hermione found herself studying under a master. He taught her everything, where to find the combination brush and wand that all magical artists used, how to find the true history of a subject to bring it to life, the spells and ingredients needed for the paints and canvases. She learned much under the old man and painstaking as it was, owed much of her current success to him.

The scratching of an owl at her window pulled Hermione from her reverie.

Placing down her brush and paints, she wiped her hands on her shirt and opened the window. The owl hopped in, rustling it's feathers, and extended a leg with a note attached to it. She dutifully removed it and placed a dish of owl treats in front of the bird. She was quite familiar with the mixture of black and white feathers this particular owl had and knew that it's owner would expect a quick response.

She unraveled the note and read it, delighted to find that her patron had the prospect of another commission at hand. She quickly jotted a note to the man and attached it to the owl's leg, sending the bird on his way.

"Pavel," she called, "You're almost finished but I need to head into London for a meeting. To be continued, love."

"Fine, fine," the portrait replied. "And when you come back, I'll tell. you about my role in the battle of Rivington."

Hermione chuckled. That was one she had definitely heard before. She changed her clothes and bettered her appearance to her best ability, casting cleaning spells to remove the paint that dotted her skin. She contemplated a concealment charm to hide her identity but decided against it. This would be a quick trip into Diagon Alley, no need for that. She checked Crookshanks' food and water bowls and, satisfied, apparated from her apartment.

She arrived outside the Leaky Cauldron and headed inside. She kept her head down and following the usual path and tapping the particular bricks, found her way into Diagon Alley. It was a short walk to her destination. She walked briskly and found herself in front of the shop, looking up at the peeling gold letters on the shop's sign:

_Olivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

Hermione opened the door, excited for her next magical art adventure.

_**Author's Note**_

Thanks to all the readers so far. This is a longer chapter and I hope to continue with chapters of this length, hopefully posting every two weeks or so. Always open to suggestions and ideas, so feel free to drop a DM or review. Cheers!


	6. Chapter 5

"Olivander's, huh?"

Ronald Weasley was draped across a leather couch in the Grimmauld Place study late one evening, tossing a quaffle in the air to himself. Harry's best friend was a common fixture in that seat. Ron certainly earned enough through the joke shop to keep his own flat, but he found the comforts and the food at Grimmauld to be an incredible benefit of his friendship with Harry. Harry didn't mind the company in the slightest, so they continued their roommate status that they had formed in the Gryffindor dormitories. Grimmauld was large enough that they could each have their own space, avoid stepping on each others toes, and still enjoy meeting up at the end of the day to unwind.

"Yeah. Did you even realize that Olivander had retired? Evidently his nephew has been running the shop for the last few years. I guess the wand-making business is a family one."

"I would have never guessed that that old coot had any family," Ron opined. "Last time we saw him was, what, Malfoy's dungeon?"

"Right in one. I never had a good impression of him. It always felt like fire and brimstone when he was around 'Terrible things! Yes! But. Great!" Harry often mocked that dialogue exchange in his mind. It was one of his first tastes of the wizarding world, and between Hagrid and Olivander, what a wild introduction it was.

Ron snorted. "When are you gonna go see this guy?"

"I have some time before classes start, so I figure either tomorrow or Friday morning."

This sentiment was met with a roll of Ron's eyes.

"I know how much you love going to Diagon. Bloody Harry Potter mania out there."

It was true. Six years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts and Harry was still hounded in public. Between adoring fans and the advances of amorous women (and the occasional man), he had to be careful with his public appearances. He often used concealment charms to hide himself just to avoid the scrutiny. Sure, the weight of the name Harry Potter could work in his favor, but he didn't want people fawning over him and doing him favors. That was never his style.

Harry grinned. "We all know how much Ron Weasley still loves all that limelight. Did I see the Daily Prophet's gossip column mentioning that you and Katie were out at that new restaurant in Diagon last week? Couldn't have been an easy table to get, hmm?"

"Being part of the 'Golden Trio' should benefit me in some way, Harry. Might as well use it to my advantage." Ron threw the quaffle at Harry. After the battle and departure of one third of the trio, Ron had found himself in a tough place. He dutifully followed Harry to the auror program but bowed out quickly. Working with George, he had been able to get his mind right. He found himself happy and able to move on from the past, looking forward to the future.

Few would guess that that future would involve Katie Bell. Katie was around the shop quite a bit, checking in on George and lending a hand where possible. Late nights stocking shelves together led to dates and an eventual relationship for Ron and Katie. Harry couldn't help but think he had found a perfect match in a woman who loved quidditch even more than Ron did.

"It's not like you go malnourished," Harry jabbed with a grin. His friend had added a few kilos since dropping the auror regimen. "Might as well get the best food that you can."

"And that I do, Harry. That I most definitely do. Speaking of, are you still planning on coming to the Burrow Friday night? Mum's putting together quite the spread for Ginny's quarterly return."

Harry rarely turned down an invitation to the Burrow. Molly's culinary skills were a national treasure, as far as he was concerned. Plus, the possibility of some alone time with Ginny wouldn't hurt. It had been awhile since he was last with a woman and the arrangement he had with Ginny was beneficial for the both of them.

"I'll be there. You know I wouldn't miss it." Harry yawned. "That's it for me, mate. I'm knackered."

"Fine, fine," the red-head said dismissively. "I have a few more hours in me, so I'll see you tomorrow."

"Is that what it is?" Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Or is it that a certain young lady will be visiting you once I go to bed?"

Ron stuttered sheepishly.

"Ron, you can tell Katie she doesn't have to resort to sneaking in here. Besides, she's moving in here when I go back to Hogwarts. She's always welcome. Mi casa, su casa," Harry offered.

"We appreciate it, really, Harry. I'll definitely remind her but I think she likes the skulking about. Gets her in the mood, I'd wager. Now get outta here so I can get some," Ron said, waggling his eyebrows.

Harry pulled a disgusted face, popped up from his seat, and sprinted from the room. He needed no further encouragement. He bounded the stairs two at a time, laughing, and thanking the gods for silencing charms. Soon enough, he would be in the halls of Hogwarts and not even having to remotely consider Ron's romantic trysts. He knew, thought, that he was leaving Grimmauld place in good hands with Ron and Katie looking after it during the school year.

Getting ready for bed, Harry turned to the window in his room to close his curtain. He stared out, admiring the golden stars that blanketed the inky black sky. There wasn't much more he could ask for in life. His life and heart were full of friends and love. He had the Weasleys and Teddy to count as his family. There was, though, the slightest twitch of jealousy over Ron's relationship.

Sure, he had plenty of opportunity to date. But he felt like Goldilocks, with nothing seeming to fit. This one was too starstruck, this one too money hungry, this one too vapid and uninteresting. He yearned for someone to build a life with and could only hope that that person would present themselves sooner rather than later. He was growing tired of having only the random Ginny Weasley sighting in his bed.

Closing the window curtains, he turned with a sigh. He laid himself in bed and closed his eyes. He didn't know what the future held but was excited about the direction his life was taking. Harry drifted to sleep knowing that the coming days would be full of change and intrigue and that made him content.

Friday morning found Harry venturing to Diagon Alley. He dressed himself in plain robes and donned a concealment charm that made him look like, what could only be described as, a thinner version of his cousin Dudley. He made his way, head down, through the familiar surroundings of the Leaky Cauldron and tapped the bricks to enter the shopping district. He was careful not to catch the eye of anyone and focused on the path ahead.

Harry was still enchanted by Diagon Alley, all these years later. After the war, the wizarding community worked tirelessly to bring the shine back to the alley. Today, it was bustling with wizards and witches, young and old. Kids were shopping for their needed Hogwarts supplies and parents were doling out the funds to make them happy. He couldn't help but take in the scene as he hurried to his destination.

Harry passed by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. The chaos in the store was astounding. Kids were running around, laughing and showing off the newest, fun products they had found. He could see George, Ron, Katie, and their staff working to contain the chaos but not to much avail. The scene excited him even more to get started with his teaching duties. He made a mental note to go over the latest joke inventory with George and Ron. Couldn't hurt to have some advance notice ahead of the school year.

He made his way through the crowds unmolested. His disguise was doing the trick. Eventually, he found himself in front of his intended destination, Olivander's. He was surprised, to say the least, when Aberforth had told him to contact the wand shop for help with commissioning a painting. Evidently, the Olivander family had been involved in magical art for quite some time. Harry had owled after the conversation at the Hog's Head and was met with a quick response on a parchment with a letterhead noting the new proprietor, X. Olivander. Harry readied himself and pulled the door open.

Taking in the space, Harry found himself surprised. Sure, he was young and in awe of everything when he had first visited the shop. Looking back, though, he was shocked that he hadn't taken in the full scene. There were shelves and shelves of wands in boxes lining the room, of course. But in every space that wasn't occupied by a wall or wand box, there were small works of art, beacons of bright and lively color amongst the dark hues of the wooden shelves and boxes. He saw portraits and landscapes, paintings of magical objects and creatures. Most of the paintings were no larger than a traditional sheet of paper and utilized paints, charcoals, inks and plenty of other mediums. He was speechless and so absorbed that he failed to register a person approaching him.

"Good afternoon, sir. Are you in need of a new wand?"

Harry turned to the speaker and was surprised. Gone was the aged wandmaker and in his stead was a young man, likely only a few years older than himself. The man's long black hair was tied back at the base of his neck and he was dressed simply, in a white oxford shirt and a pair of black pants and black boots, surprising for a proprietor in Diagon Alley. Most favored traditional wizarding robes. Harry wasn't expecting the previous wandmaker, but the person before him was certainly a surprise. Even Harry couldn't deny the man's attractiveness.

"Oh no," Harry replied. "I'm here to discuss commissioning a portrait."

"Ah, unfortunately we require some advance notice for that kind of work and I have another prospective client coming in today. Can I schedule a meeting for you for later this month?"

Harry then realized that he had forgotten to remove his concealment charm.

"Sorry, sorry," Harry apologized. He took his wand out from his robes and removed the disguise. "This is better."

The shopkeeper didn't seem phased by Harry's change. Instead, Harry saw him look to his forehead for confirmation, the usual confirmation that someone was truly speaking with the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. A pleasure to meet you. I must admit, you did have me guessing there. As I've often seen your picture in the paper, I knew what the person I was expecting looked like and that concealment certainly wasn't him. I'm Xavier Olivander, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Harry noticed a tinge of a French accent. "Not a problem at all. As you might imagine, people tend to raise a bit of a fuss when I venture out into the wizarding public. I try to keep it lowkey."

"I certainly understand. Your name does carry some weight and I was excited to finally meet you. My uncle spoke very highly of you. He told me of your great deeds and how you rescued him during the war. Though I grew up in France, word of your victory certainly made for a happy day in Marseille."

Harry couldn't help but blush. He was still shite at taking compliments and praise.

"Well, your uncle was helpful to me, so, uh, let's call that even, ok?" Harry nervously rubbed the back of his neck. "He helped me plenty when I needed it. When did he step down from the shop?" He was desperate for a subject change.

"It has been a year and a half, or so," Xavier replied. "He was tired and ready for the next great adventure. He is now almost certainly sunning himself on the beaches of southern France." Xavier smiled. "Now how can I be of service?"

"I'm looking to have a magical portrait made," Harry asserted. "Is that something the Olivander shop has always done?"

"No, no," Xavier said. "We certainly do not do the art in house. While some may say that wand making is an art, we are not so gifted with painting. For years, my family has created the artisan wands that magical artists use. Painting these masterpieces needs more than your average kolinsky brush, Harry."

"Kolinsky?"

"Oh, a type of weasel. No, let me show you." Xavier led Harry to a row of wand boxes, opening one. Inside was what, at first glance, looked like a normal Olivander wand. "We use the traditional woods for the wand and magical elements for core, yes. But it is the end that matters."

Harry looked at the end of the wand and was surprised to see it end with what looked like a traditional painters brush.

"We use only the finest, most supple magical materials for our brush elements. The magical nature makes them pliable, expandable, and capable of transferring the artists' intent to the canvas. You'd be surprised how well the hair of a werewolf works for painting," Xavier added with a smile. "The process is not dissimilar from how wands choose their witch or wizard. These wands, though capable of doing basic spells and charms, would not do for powerful spell casting. So artists usually choose to keep a personal wand as well as their brush wand. We have been supplying the artists with these wands for hundreds of years and have developed a relationship with many of the finest in England. We act as a sort of gallery for them. We hang their example paintings and help to mediate the contracts between artist and commissioner. We currently work with four English artists and over 25 artists from around the world. Take a look and see if one of the examples fits what you were thinking of for the portrait." Xavier motioned with his hand to the paintings hung throughout the room, leaving Harry to deal with a customer who had entered the store.

Harry was overwhelmed. There were paintings of all types and styles. He wandered the room, taking in as many as he could. Most were done in what could only be described as a classical style. They looked like the paintings that hung in Hogwarts and the museums that he had visited around London on his days off. They were perfectly fine but he couldn't imagine Remus or Tonks in that style.

He turned a corner and stopped. In front of him, was a grouping of paintings that were unlike any he had seen. They were modern, with bold, clean lines and color that popped off the canvas. He stepped closer to look. One painting showed a coastal scene, waves rising and falling and sunlight basking the shore in a golden hue. Another showed a man and a woman at a cafe, the street scene moving around them. He was drawn in and couldn't look away and poured over every detail, even noting the small "H" cartouche in the bottom right corner of each painting.

"Ah, quite the eye, I see." Xavier had found him. Harry turned to the shopkeeper and saw that he had a smile playing at his lips.

"These are amazing. Nothing in the shop is like them," Harry admired.

"This artist is a rising one. She is relatively new to the magical art world but studied under one of the foremost magical art masters. She is thorough and respectful, with an eye for color like I've never seen before."

Harry was sold. "This is who I want to do the portrait. It's only fitting of the subjects. One was an animagus and the color that I see here is truly befitting of her. What do I

need to do to start the process?"

"I will owl her today. I know that she is finishing another painting but that should be done within the week. I will see to her availability. In terms of pricing, that will depend on the time she needs, the size of the portrait, and of course my commission. Do you know what size painting you're interested in?"

Harry thought for a moment, think back to the portraits he had seen before. "Would 75 centimeters by 100 centimeters work?"

"I think it should," Xavier replied. "I will owl her today to see to her availability and discuss the pricing. I would hope to have a response for you by the end of the day."

"Perfect. Xavier, thank you so much for your help and showing me around the shop. This has been an amazing experience." Harry turned to leave, stopping short. "By the way, you didn't mention the name of the artist, just that it was a woman. What's her name?"

"Oh," Xavier hummed. "She is a mysterious one, this artist. She only corresponds and introduces herself as H."

"Please tell H that I hope that we can come to an agreement. I think she's perfect for my project and no fee is too great. She's exactly what I need." Harry shook Xavier's hand and turned to leave.

Opening the door, he stepped into Diagon Alley, an inspired man. Concealment and public spectacle be damned, he wanted to enjoy the alley. He strode up the walkways, taking in the sights and sounds, the colors and smells of the alley. He shook hands, autographed a few items that were thrust in front of him, and reveled in the energy. H's paintings made him feel something and he didn't want to let that go to waste.


End file.
